


I Don't Just Want To Be Your Regret

by InsideTheSky



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, The Academy Is...
Genre: It's so cliche it's basically the "omg he fancies you" freakout, M/M, Revelations, gabilliam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsideTheSky/pseuds/InsideTheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were drunk, or halfway there, it wasn't important.</p>
<p>
  <b>Edit 15/8/15: This is still ongoing I'm just a terrible person who takes a long time to write</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So just pour a drink, let's talk it over.

*

They were drunk, or halfway there, it wasn't important. Almost everyone - (in)formally invited or not - was there, crammed into Patrick's small flat ("Why mine?" "Because you don't have a flatmate and I'm not letting them near my Xbox again!" "But-") two nights before Valentine's Day: Pete, Joe, Jon, Tom, Mike, Travis, Brendon, Ryan and a load more that blurred together after the third vodka. Not that all of them were drinking, but it was alcohol that was the problem. If none of them had been drunk then secrets would stay secrets and Patrick's bathroom cabinet would have been safe. But then these weren't the kind of people to pass up a good time, and what better occasion to celebrate than Pete finding a tenner in his best pair of boots? (and, okay, Fall Out Boy's album getting the number one spot, but still.)

*

It's late, or early, depending on how many of Pete's mojitos you drank, but only Sisky is asleep, curled in the corner around an empty bottle. Pete rifles through Patrick's admittedly impressive music collection and sighs after every CD. When Patrick's back is turned, he plugs in his own iPod and cues the party playlist. "Sexyback" starts playing and Gabe hollers across the room, giving Pete a thumbs up. Patrick stiffens and turns, levelling his fingers at Pete in an _I'm watching you_ gesture. He can't keep a straight face, so the overall effect is sort of ruined, but Pete turns the volume down three notches anyway. Just in case.

Across the room Bob Morris and Chris are trying to explain a complicated drinking game to Brendon and some of the Alexes. Nearby, Jon and William are playing a drunken game of snap overseen by Spencer. They decide to call it a draw as none of them can remember what you're supposed to say, and it's a boring game in any case. William feels he's just on the right side of drunk but not intoxicated enough, like acclimatising to water temperature. He unfolds his legs and attempts to stand up, but the floor is comfy and the alcohol is too far away. He leans against the wall and thinks _I'm not drunk enough to do magic yet_. And the alcohol makes everything brighter and slower, and he's only really aware of something once it's happened. For example, he blinked when Pete was standing by Ryan, and somehow in that time Pete had made it to the other side of the room to change the music. Like a badly buffered video, he's experiencing the night in fragments. It's as if he doesn't exist between these snatches of reality. He thinks there's maybe a song in there somewhere. He squints then closes his eyes, not opening them even when the Butcher prods him with a toe.

"Dude, get me a beer."

He sighs. "That's a hell to the no."

"Aw, come on. Please." Andy widens his eyes hopefully.

"No."

"I'll give you my first born child."

There's a pause. "Okay."

And then William, three beers in his arms, is pulled into a conversation with Ryland, Nate and Mike.

"William, Nate won't let me into his nightclub and you need to help me," Ryland whines, plucking the bottles from his grip and swapping them for a crazy-strawed cup.

"Oh, leave the poor boy alone," Greta tuts as she walks past, but she's smiling slightly. Her fingers are laced with Bob's, who is worse for the wear after the two bottles it took him to demonstrate his Japanese game.

Mike's wearing sunglasses and William sings the part of Down and Out at him. They both snigger until Ryland, bored with tormenting Nate, turns to them with a gleam in his eye. William focuses on him and realises he's probably the drunkest person at the party (except Travis, but he can handle it).

"William!" he exclaims, more upbeat this time. "I know who likes you!! And it's almost Valentine's Day!"

Nate freezes and starts to say "Ry, no-"

Ryland's voice gets louder and William laughs. "I think you should be together forever and have lots of babies! And you can call them after me and Nate!" he digs his elbow into Nate, who laughs nervously,  distinctly uncomfortable.

"Who is it?" William grins, lopsidedly. "Gracie?" Gracie being Cobra's inflatable woman, who sat next to the bus driver and made the occasional appearance at parties. Given that half the label had already "married" her, she seemed a pretty safe bet.

Ryland shakes his head solemnly, gripping William's arm. "No, no." His emphatic movements make William kind of dizzy, but through the fuzzy tint of alcohol it's amusing. "No," Ryland repeats. Nate takes Ryland's cup and sniffs it, before making a face and saying "Oh, great."

William glances from one to the other, sipping his drink through the straw. Mike had wandered off and Nate tries to pull Ryland away, his height not assisting him.

"You need to listen." Ryland continues urgently. "Bilvy." They both nod. "Okay, so you can't tell anyone I told you this, but the person is...." He pauses, then with a dramatic flourish announces "Gabe!"

William snorts, almost spitting out his drink. "Right. Right. Gabe."

People closest to them stop and watch, some in a curious manner, others shifty.

"William, you don't get it. Gabe is in love with you!" Ryland practically yells. Nate buries his head in his hands as William scans the now-quiet room. Most of the people recognise what's going on. Greta's hand goes to her mouth; Tom's jaw drops. Ryland's head swivels apologetically to where Gabe stood, a drink in each hand, looking like a caged animal.

Still facing Ryland, William doesn't grasp the reality of the situation. "Yeah, right, that's not true. Gabe's so obvious, I'd be the first to -" He spins around and focuses on his friend, who holds his gaze with terrified eyes and a sorrowful expression. He halts, eyes widening with dawning comprehension. He glances to his friends helplessly, but Jon, Pete, Tom, Andy, they all look away awkwardly.

Gabe puts one of the drinks down, about to speak.

And when William finishes his sentence, when he says "know", they can all tell it's a "no", a denial, a rejection. "No," he says again flatly, echoing Ryland from earlier. He backs away, shaking his head. He raises a finger and points shakily at Gabe. "I've seen how you treat people. It's like -” he casts around wildly “- use 'em and lose 'em as fast as you can. I'm not being a part of this.  I don't want it." His voice catches. The rest of the party watch as if they're seeing a car crash unfold. Gabe flinches as if he's been slapped. "I don't," William says softly, sounding like he's going to cry. He drops his empty plastic cup, leaving it to bounce and roll across the floor as he pushes past silent people and runs out the door, abandoning his jacket in the corner. Everyone's eyes swing to Gabe, who lets out a shaky breath and downs his drink in one. Someone takes the music off pause and the others begin to talk again, trying to fill the tense silence. Ryland stares in horror as Nate pats him awkwardly on the back.

"That's not what was supposed to happen," he says sorrowfully.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god, this is predictable and boring and I'm so sorry
> 
> also I'm really sorry ryland ilysm I just wanted to write this


	2. But the party's busted up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I just don't know what to _do_ , Sisky,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I updated! Sorry, I had to deal with my UCAS application and my prelims are soon and Advanced Higher English Dissertations might kill me. I started writing this on 14/10/14, but I'm changing the "chapter publication date" because it's annoying me. It's been five months and one day since I posted the first chapter. I'm very grateful for everyone who read it. Thank you.
> 
> (is this too melodramatic? who knows. I use dashes too much, sue me)

*

Outside, William leans against the rough stone wall of the building, inhaling the cool air of the night. He closes his eyes and swallows, remembering the look on Gabe's face (hurt, wounded, piercing like a knife). He takes a couple of deep breaths and rubs his bare arms, wishing he'd worn a shirt with long sleeves or at least stopped to pick up his jacket.  Above him the branches of a magnolia tree rustle in the slight breeze.  It’s planted in a small patch of grass next to the building entrance, probably as part of some urban project.  The pretty pink flowers are an unexpected surprise, and are somehow a comforting sight.  Stepping away from the flats, he surveys the street for a taxi. As he hails one, he realises that he's shaking, not from the cold but from the confrontation. He refuses to think about it right now.

The relative quiet of the street is a sobering shock after the noise of the party, and he holds on to it, trying to calm down. The taxi driver asks for the address, which takes him a while to process and actually give.  The car is warm, with the radio on classical music of all things and William manages to compose himself during the drive, thinking instead of this tune he can't get out of his head. By the time they reach his house, he thinks he could maybe get a chorus out of it when he sees the others at practice.  He's idly tapping out the rhythm on his leg with one hand while he pays the driver when she catches his wrist.

"Are you alright?" she asks, her eyes scrutinising his. She appears concerned, and William's heart constricts. He's fine (ish). Gabe's not. How could he have been so heartless? He could have laughed it off and nothing would have happened. But he had meant what he said, and - god, he needs to be drunk again.

"Yeah," he says finally, "just had a rough night."

"Well, be careful. Get a good night's sleep, I hope tomorrow's better for you."

"Thank you," William replies, meaning it. "Have a good night."

The tail lights are far down the street before he gathers his scattered thoughts and pulls out his keys. He walks up to his flat very definitely not thinking about what happened, and while he makes himself hot chocolate (with a liberal dash of vodka) he does not take out his phone and stare at it, willing it to ring. When he finally drags himself to bed at half five, it's getting lighter and he's no more tired and his phone. is. so. silent.

He falls asleep at six, maybe, only to dream in plastic cups falling and stifling soundlessness.

He wakes slowly, screwing his fluttering eyes shut as if he can ward off the sun shining defiantly through his window. He wishes he'd shut the curtains when he got in as it's really not helping his alcohol-fuelled headache. Coffee would. Or tea. Fact.

"Okay, go." he says aloud. He doesn't move. "Argh," he groans weakly. William does not like mornings.

Squinting at the digital clock on the bedside table reveals that it is 11am and also that his mobile is wedged under his cheek. Blearily, and massaging his face, he reads his sole message: **Do you want me to come over?** It's from Sisky. He doesn't know whether to be disappointed or not.

The kitchen is small, not excessively so, but large enough for William's needs, mainly coffee and takeaways. Stumbling around the counter to the fridge, he's reminded that he needs to get more milk. He tries to drink his tea black, but it's too strong and also in some way  reminds him of how he imagines his heart feeling, so he pours it down the sink. He texts Sisky back.

He makes a piece of toast and carries it back to his room, deciding to get dressed. It's a reasonable habit to get into, one generally not frowned over. Unless you're a stripper, in which case, William thinks, he does have the hips for it (but not the interest). He takes a few experimental steps over to the wardrobe in what he imagines is a stripper-like fashion. Honestly, it's probably a good thing that he's alone.

At the back of the cupboard he manages to  find a t-shirt on a coat hanger, with a waistcoat dangling from the hook that doesn’t clash too horribly, and he snags some reasonably clean jeans from the back of a chair. Getting dressed would make him feel better, he reasoned, as well as a shower.

The hot water removes the numbness in his limbs, but fails to wash away the past twelve hours, not that he’d expected it to. He pulls on his clothes and marvels at how clean and brand-new he feels.

It’s when he’s at a loss for what to do that Sisky rings the bell. William doesn’t even let him in the door before he barrels into him. Sisky staggers backwards, forced off the step. He doesn’t say a word while William locks his door and wraps a scarf around his neck.

“I need milk,” he says by way of explanation.

“Sure,” Sisky shrugs, falling into step beside him as they descend the stairs. It’s this willingness to go along with things with no hesitation that is part of what makes him such a good friend, as well as how fiercely he'll defend his friends if he needs to. He's definitely someone William would pick for his zombie invasion team. They walk out of the main door and towards the shops in silence, which William is grateful for.  He doesn’t know if he’s in the mood for discussion or not.

They pass a coffee shop and Sisky drags William inside, intent on forcing some caffeine down his throat.

“Andy told me,” Sisky ventures. He peeks sideways at William, whose shoulders are squared, eyes staring straight ahead. “You okay?”

William makes a noncommittal noise and scans the board. After a moment of silence he starts talking. “You know, I thought of this great idea for a song last night, it goes kind of like thi-”

“William.”

William duly falls silent.

“Come on! You can’t keep this all inside, and look, I know I wasn’t really conscious –“

“Dead to the world,” William remarks.

“-but obviously it happened and it was important and you should probably talk about it because I _know_ you, you keep it all bottled up and then you just – two cappuccinos, please – you just don’t let me in. Please. Don’t tell me you’re fine cos yesterday, that didn’t sound fine.”

Their table is worn and scratched, the wooden surface obviously having seen better days. Sisky fiddles with the salt cellar and eyes the people outside, waiting for an answer. It’s cold and most (sensible) people outside are wearing scarves like William, though Sisky doubts that his friend’s thin stripy scarf is providing much warmth. Especially since he’s not even wearing long sleeves. Granted, neither of them are, but it’s not like it’s snowing. And they are Men. They ain’t afraid of no cold.

Besides, the coffee’s warm enough to fog up the window next to them, and as if he was just waiting for the last defence against prying eyes, William begins to speak.

“I just don’t know what to _do_ , Sisky, he’s one of my best friends and I never would have believed it for a second but oh, his face….” He falls silent, tracing scratched graffiti on the table top. Sisky follows his finger down. _A + C forever_. Enclosed by a wonky heart, probably scored with a pen. He wonders if William’s conscious of what he’s doing.

In the subsequent pause William drinks half his cup, both hands wrapped around it as if it’s an anchor, keeping him on earth, or a float, the last hope of a drowning man. Sisky’s pretty proud of himself for that simile. He could totally do William’s job.

“I feel terrible, I shouldn’t have said anything but I was drunk and stupid and oh my god, _how was I supposed to know_?”

Sisky has no answer for this, but William is apparently on a roll, still clutching his cup as he stares intently down at the table.

“I mean, there was some stuff he said, but I never thought he was actually serious? And he’s always off with some girl or some dude round the back of the buses, or the hotels, or the pubs.....”

“Maybe,” Sisky tries carefully, “maybe all of that was because he wasn’t with you?”

He blinks. “I was horrible yesterday. I don’t know what to say, what am I supposed to do now? God, it’s so embarrassing.” Placing his cup down on the table, he puts his head in his hands.

“Well, he obviously likes you, you know, it’s not like he denied it or anything, so….”

“I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?” he says mournfully, glancing up.  He gives off such a sad air that one of the waitresses wiping the tables next to them leans over, whispering to the other.

“He’s got to be feeling as bad as you do right now,” Sisky offers. He receives an agonised groan in response.

A plate appears, hovering over William’s shoulder.  On it are two napkin-wrapped biscuits, chocolate chip by the looks of it, and still warm. The plate is set down on the table, and they both look up to see the waitress standing next to them. “It’s on us,” she says. “Max said so, since you seemed so dejected and all.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder at a man in a black shirt and name tag at the counter, presumably the manager.

“Thank you,” William replies, surprised.

She waves her hand dismissively. “He’s a sucker for a sad face. Anyway, cheer up, these biscuits have won awards!” And with a “Have a nice day!” she left.

“That was nice of them,” Sisky says, taking a bite of his cookie. “Mmm.”

“Yeah,” William replies, but his eyes are far away. He nibbles at a piece of biscuit, and his gaze comes sharply back into focus. “I should do something. To say sorry.”

“What are you going to do?”

William sighs. “Hell if I know.”

*

Gabe stands, shocked, in the middle of the room, empty cup in hand. He glances around for another, which Victoria passes him. Her mouth is a sympathetic twist as she puts her hand on his arm. “You alright?”

“I guess,” he says, draining his second cup. She drags him over to the drinks table and gives him a bottle of water, which he pretends not to notice, before she walks across the room. Gabe’s drinking some kind of alcohol – the writing’s foreign, but it burns as it slides down his throat – when Victoria returns, Pete in tow.

“Oh, Gabe,” Pete sighs. He pats him awkwardly on the back and tries to sound supportive. “It’s okay, he’s just drunk, he didn’t mean it, he probably needs some time, come here.” He pulls Gabe into a hug.

Him and Patrick share some kind of coded glance behind Gabe’s back, and Pete steers Gabe towards the dark guest room. Victoria disappears again at Pete’s look, coming back with a bottle of vodka. She lingers hesitantly by the door in a worried fashion until Pete says “It’s okay, I’ll take care of him,” and she leaves, her demeanour no less worried.

“Give me that,” Gabe says, motioning for the bottle. Pete, who had just opened his mouth to speak, complies. Gabe takes a deep swig and sits heavily down on the neatly made bed. He rumples the sheets and dislodges the pillows, but they both know Patrick won’t mind. Pete pauses then sits next to him. He holds his hand out and when Gabe surrenders the bottle, he gulps some down, prolonging the silence while he thinks of something to say.

“Look man, William -” Gabe winces at the name - “probably just needs some time to like, process it. I’m guessing it’s not such an easy bombshell to take when you’re drunk.” He lets Gabe have the bottle again. The light from the doorway is just enough to see by, and it casts a shadow across their faces. Despite this, Pete can see how uncomfortable he is, and from the restless way he's peeling the label off he's clearly unhappy. _No wonder_ he thinks, internally cursing William. Yeah, they were all drunk, but he could have handled it better.  Not that Pete has such a good track record of such things.  And as much as he felt sorry for Ryland, he couldn't help being annoyed at his drunken confession-by-proxy.  Next time they had a party, anyone with any secrets was going to be barred.

“Right now, all I want is to be more drunk.” Gabe decided.

Pete intends to let him.  He wouldn’t want to be in his (awkward and frankly, embarrassing) position.  It’s probably time for the tequila shots.

Gabe knows the moment he wakes up because the nausea and sledgehammer party in his head kick in. He realises he’s not in his own bed, but since no one else he knows has not one but two patchwork quilts instead of a duvet, it’s a plausible assumption that he’s in Patrick’s guest room.

He hasn't been this hammered since Warped two years ago, and he still can't remember that particular occasion, having pieced it together from several accounts by his friends and crew. Actually, yesterday's pretty foggy too, and he doesn't really feel like delving into the starburst of pain in his head to even try to remember anything. The uneasiness he feels should mean something to him, but he’s too hungover to think about it. He starts counting the flowers on the ugly curtains a metre from his face, in an attempt to sober himself up, but when he's counted the same hideous petunia five times he gives up and lets his eyelids fall.

Three hours later, he feels sufficiently recovered to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and consider himself standing up. Twenty minutes of blinking uncomprehendingly at the floor after _that_ and he’s standing, rubbing his eyes and running his hand through his messy hair. He should probably get it cut, although he thinks he likes it grown out a bit longer than usual.

He wanders through into the living room, seeing Patrick sitting in an armchair reading. He doesn't give off the impression of being even slightly hungover (as usual), something that would usually piss Gabe off if they weren't such good friends.

“Patrick,” he begins. The man in question’s head lifts up, an expression of surprise on his face. It is only midday after all, that frightfully early hour that no person calling themself sane is awake to see. “You have really ugly curtains.”

Pete laughs from his position on the sofa. He's lying spread out on his back, clutching a cushion and balancing his phone on top. His thumbs move maniacally across the keyboard as he texts - well, whoever he's texting.

“Wow.” Patrick blinks. “Well, they were a housewarming present. They’re not really that bad though, are they?” He pouts, putting his book down. “Okay, okay, I get it, you don’t like my curtains,” he says as Pete and Gabe give him matching frowns of disdain. “There’s paracetamol and Danishes on the counter, and water or Lucozade if you’d like.” he directs this last sentence at Gabe who nods his thanks.

When Gabe finishes his cinnamon swirl and downs two cups of water and half a litre of orange Lucozade he pushes Pete’s legs off the end of the sofa, ignoring the protests as he takes a seat. “Move it, shorty.” He feels a lot better now

As Pete adjusts himself to his new position, this time with his knees pulled up so he can rest his arms and continue texting in peace, he laughs at something he’s read.  After a particularly vigorous reply, he puts his phone down and turns to Gabe. “Ryan says Brendon decided on the way back to Jon’s that he was going to run away and become a stripper.” He grins as Gabe raises an eyebrow. “I told him to save it for the stage show.”

“You’re meant to be a positive role model, you know that, right Pete?” Patrick cuts in.

“I am!” Pete objects. “I was the one who introduced them to James!”

“Yeah, who went and took them out of the label meeting to go get drunk,” Gabe pointed out. “And you recommended the bar.”

“I am responsible though, they’re not dead!”

“I remember one time we went to that disco club and you lost them” Patrick comments at the same time as Gabe whispers "Yet."

"Oh come on, that was just a mistake. They didn't even notice, and the police were completely understanding! You can't hold that against me forever."

"Of course, Pete."  Pete retaliates by sticking out his tongue and swiping the half-empty bottle of Lucozade resting on the sofa cushion beside him.

“Hey!” Gabe says, swatting the air where his drink had been seconds before.  “I was drinking that!”

“You snooze you lose,” Patrick says breezily, finally abandoning his book completely.  He lifts a black hat from behind the TV - god knows how it got there - and carefully places it on his head.  He appears to have a variety of hats, and no one but Patrick knows where they come from. “I have to go to the record shop, my Elvis Costello vinyl came in.  You’re welcome to come with me,” he pauses as if waiting for an answer.  When neither of the two respond, he continues, “or you could just lie around all day.”  This suggestion is met with twin nods.  Patrick sighs, although he really wasn’t expecting any other reply.  Holding onto the door handle, he slips his shoes on and leaves.

It was a sunny afternoon in Chicago, the beginning of spring barely showing in the wintry rays of sun filtering through the tall grey buildings and bare street trees sprouting from the concrete pavements.  Gabe opens the window and breathes in the frosty air.  He’s always found it weird that cold seems to help his headaches, whether it’s a soaked flannel, a refrigerated can or, on one occasion, a pack of frozen carrots.  It’s refreshing and clears his head and maybe it’s just the air, but he takes big lungfuls in anyway, inflating his lungs and imagining his persistent headache disappearing faster than the medicine can work.  He turns his face back into the room, still leaning on the window sill with his head half out the window.  “So that was some party last night, huh?”

Somehow that’s the wrong thing for him to say.  Pete stops texting, and squints ahead for a second before twisting round and peering at him with wide eyes.  “What do you remember from last night?”  It seems like a loaded question.

“What?” Gabe spins around, half smiling.  “What did I do? I didn’t chuck anything out the window, did I?  That was a bad fine last time.”  He stops when Pete shakes his head.  Gabe’s markedly nervous now, wondering if his earlier feelings of apprehension were unfounded after all.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly you, but it wasn’t really Ryland’s fault either, someone gave him Jägerbombs, and uhh....he sort of told William that you were in love with him?” Pete tells him apologetically, reasoning that it’s just like ripping off a plaster, better to do it quickly.  Maybe it’s a good idea, maybe not.

Gabe sits abruptly on the window sill.  “Shit.”  He can vaguely remember the party: Justin Timberlake playing, Joe’s hilarious dance moves, Gizmo scampering around in a party hat and, oh.  William’s unsympathetic words swim around his mind while the memory of his swift exit burns itself deeper into his heart.  Being rejected is one thing.  Being rejected in such a harsh way by one of his best friends is another, very difficult thing.  

He absentmindedly pulls out his own phone and scrolls through the list of texts verging from the “ **I’m soo sorry** ” (Ryland) to the sympathetic (Mikey Way, Ryan, Suarez).  Nothing from William.  That was probably to be expected though.  “Did I ruin the party?”

“No, no, everyone left about five?  It wasn’t your fault.  We drank half the tequila and you told Ryland that you forgave him, then you made him sing High School Musical or some shit, I dunno.  It was an alright night.”  Sighing, he holds out his arms.  “But not for you, I’m guessing.  Come here.”  Gabe complies, numbly surrendering to Pete’s hug while he mentally beats himself up.

Patrick comes back ten minutes later to find them curled up on the sofa watching Nickolodeon.  He guesses Gabe remembered then.  He smiles supportively and sits next to them, easing the remote control out of Pete’s grip and changing the TV to NBC.  

“I should get out of your hair,” Gabe says suddenly.  “I mean, got an album to write and everything, I should probably get started.  No time like the present, yeah?”  He stands up purposefully.  “And hey, you should start yours too.”  He prods Patrick leg with his foot.  “You don’t want to fall behind.”  Winking, he crosses the floor with a smirk.

And as he goes into the bathroom and shouts “Hey Patrick, what’s up with the cabinet?”, they almost believe he’s fine.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hush Sound reference whooo  
> if anyone wants to beta, I use google docs so send me a comment.


End file.
